contremineur

Some say the Phoenicians came to these isles long ago in ships with golden hawk-winged sails, and in niches on the shore left beads of sardonyx, blue ceramics, nutmeg husks, and strange gods. Some say the ships came from farther beyond, from the ports of Babylon, from the coasts of Mesopotamia.

At dusk every flower looks blue.

There’s relief in loving someone who doesn’t remember you. Who insists that no one came by yesterday, who says she didn’t spend the afternoon unpacking paper bags of coffee, crackers, strawberry preserves. All of it vanished off the warped rose countertop. She tries but can’t locate your name. Like a drift of music every time you leave, your name slips off, to where? A dusty corner, maybe the river, maybe over the bridge and up the cemetery road. It doesn’t faze her. Your name is another word to cross off her list, something she doesn’t need anymore. Nameless, you hold her hand, relieved of your story. Relieved of everything but breath.

And in each noodle shop, bowls dusted with salt.